


Fragments

by draculard



Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Secret Relationship, Smut, This is a wholesome apology for Strain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28706010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Random nonlinear scenes of Thrawn and Pellaeon's developing relationship.
Relationships: Gilad Pellaeon/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm draculard there too

Pellaeon was still shirtless, trying to do up the buttons on his trousers, when Thrawn said something that stopped him cold. The Grand Admiral was still nude, the sheets twisted around his hips and legs, and he hadn’t bothered to stand or get dressed; he lay with his datapad propped on his chest, looking over reports from the fleet while Pellaeon collected his clothes from the bedroom floor. 

“Captain,” Thrawn said, his voice moderated, his tone detached. “Have you had the chance yet to look over reports from the Judicator?”

Pellaeon froze. His thumb slipped off the top button, driving his nail into his skin. He glanced over at Thrawn with narrowed eyes and a tilted head. 

Thrawn met his gaze, his face unreadable. 

“...No,” Pellaeon said slowly.

Thrawn’s eyes flicked back down to the datapad. “Read them at once,” he murmured, his hand moving over the screen in a familiar pattern that meant he was forwarding all relevant information to Pellaeon’s account. “As soon as you return to your quarters. I’d like to hear your thoughts in the morning.”

Pellaeon processed this, his undershirt hanging uselessly in his hand. Five minutes ago, he’d had his lips on Thrawn’s neck and his hand on his cock, and all he’d been able to think about was how surprisingly vocal Thrawn was in bed — barely moving, that iron self-control keeping him still whenever Pellaeon touched him, but gasping and moaning helplessly even when all Pellaeon did was brush his tongue over Thrawn’s nipple. Now, the same man was talking to him with the sort of professional tone he might use on the bridge, brusque and polite, ultimately dismissive.

But did that mean Pellaeon _was_ dismissed? Or was this something else? He studied Thrawn, but couldn’t read anything from his face or posture except perhaps discomfort. He paused, considered his undershirt, dropped it back on the floor.

He needed more data. Still shirtless, trousers still open at the fly, Pellaeon crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, his left hand coming down on the space right next to Thrawn’s head. Thrawn’s eyes shifted over to him; something unreadable passed over his face and before Pellaeon could interpret it or speak, he sat up. Perhaps he meant to put some space between them, but Pellaeon took advantage of the change in position to slip closer, his hand now dangerously close to Thrawn’s ass. 

Thrawn looked over his shoulder, lips parting to voice a complaint; his breath caught in his throat, a half-audible, half-visible gasp when he saw how close Pellaeon was. His eyes dropped down to Pellaeon’s lips.

“Already?” he said.

Pellaeon couldn’t quite stifle a snort. “No,” he said when Thrawn’s eyes dropped even farther, lingering on his open fly. “No, I just wanted to look at you.”

Thrawn gave him an almost scandalized look before his face abruptly closed off and he leaned away. At some point, his datapad had slipped from his hands; he searched for it in the sheets and buried his nose in it at once, his posture stiffening — but he didn’t move away. 

Interesting.

Pellaeon gave him a moment, letting his head fall to the side and rest on his own shoulder. After a minute or two — when his arm was starting to ache from supporting his weight and he could see the harsh lines on Thrawn’s face softening — he lifted a hand and gently brushed a lock of hair back from Thrawn’s forehead. 

“Captain,” Thrawn snapped, jerking away.

Pellaeon hid a smile, drew his hand back. He could see a splash of color on Thrawn’s cheeks that hadn’t been there before. “Thought so,” he murmured. He leaned forward quickly, pressed a brief kiss to Thrawn’s neck, stood before Thrawn could protest. He dressed in silence, with his back turned toward the bed, and by the time he’d pulled his tunic on, he could hear the quiet rustle of sheets behind him.

Adjusting his collar, he turned and caught Thrawn watching him, his datapad abandoned. 

“Further orders before I depart, sir?” said Pellaeon dryly.

Thrawn hesitated, a flash of uncertainty crossing his face. When he spoke, his voice was crisp and composed, at total odds with his body language. “Nothing further, Captain,” he said. “You’re dismissed.” 

Pellaeon clicked his heels together, gave Thrawn a tiny ironic bow of the head that bordered on insubordination — or _would_ have, he supposed, if the circumstances were a little different: if Thrawn weren’t nude, for example; if his white uniform weren’t still discarded on the bedroom floor; if Pellaeon couldn’t still remember the hot, hard length of his cock against his hand. 

But as fun as it was to tease Thrawn, Pellaeon couldn’t leave him like this. He let his military posture drop, saw a hint of trepidation creep into Thrawn’s posture.

“I really did enjoy our time together,” Pellaeon said softly.

Thrawn’s expression didn’t change. Pellaeon took three brisk steps forward, leaned over the bed, cupped the back of Thrawn’s head for a kiss, slow and warm, Thrawn’s lips parting beneath his almost at once.

When he pulled away, Thrawn’s eyes swept back to the datapad immediately, but at the same time, he slumped back against the mattress, supine and boneless, as if that one kiss had drained him.

“Tomorrow, Gilad?” he asked, his tone soft again, his eyes dazed.

“Tomorrow,” Pellaeon agreed.


	2. Chapter 2

Sleeping with Thrawn — it was something Gilad had thought about idly now and then, but he'd never been completely honest with himself when he did so. In his daydreams, Thrawn’s body worked as a substitute for the partners he’d had in the past — like a stand-in for a pre-written script. They had sex; they lay together afterward, limbs entangled, speaking softly until they fell asleep. He could picture himself holding Thrawn in the night, showering together with him in the morning — quick, open-mouthed kisses stolen before the shower ended, steam and warm skin and hard muscle against his tongue— 

But if someone had asked him what he thought Thrawn would _actually_ be like as a lover, Gilad would have considered it for all of two seconds before answering, “Cold.”

As it happened, he was right.

Thrawn was skilled in bed, like he was skilled in everything else. He knew precisely how to touch Gilad — and for how long — to get the desired effect, whether it be slow or fast, torturous or sublime. And because of this — because of the mind-shatteringly fantastic nature of it all — it took Gilad three nighttime meetings to realize that Thrawn was, above all else, not just _pleasuring_ him but _distracting_ him.

Specifically, distracting him from touching Thrawn back.

Control, Gilad suspected. Pride; a culturally-ingrained disapproval for outward displays of emotion, whether positive or negative. Those were the things he saw in Thrawn, the things Thrawn didn’t deign to speak about but also didn’t deny.

In bed one night, both of them nude, the sheets whispering over Gilad’s skin — Thrawn pinned beneath him, chest rising and falling in tightly-controlled breaths. Gilad kissed him, first on the mouth — Thrawn’s lips meeting his, but not opening to let him in — then on the neck, an open-mouthed kiss, wet and heated and sloppy enough to earn a grunt of disapproval and a sharp tug of the hair. He ignored it, moved down Thrawn’s chest, blessed every inch of it with his scraping teeth and wet tongue.

And then his hands were on Thrawn’s thighs, gently but firmly parting them, and he could feel the automatic flex of tension before Thrawn relaxed, let Gilad spread his legs. He could scarcely believe Thrawn let him do it, wasn’t about to argue; Thrawn’s cock was hard against his stomach, leaking pre-come, and it was only a matter of moments before Gilad’s kisses brought him to the head.

He took it into his mouth slowly, his tongue swirling over the head, dipping as far into the slit as he could go. He heard a hiss, felt Thrawn’s muscles tighten underneath him, his thighs tensing under Gilad’s hand.

He liked it, though — his hips twitched, he leaned into it, bit back a gasp. Gilad took Thrawn’s cock deeper, trying his best to hold back a smile; his eyes flicked up, ready to drink in the expression on Thrawn’s face— 

—and Thrawn’s hand covered his eyes.

“Mmh?” said Pellaeon, the noise coming out muffled. Thrawn’s back arched, a strangled groan escaping him as Pellaeon’s voice vibrated around his cock — but his palm remained fixed over Pellaeon’s eyes, blocking any view he might have had.

Pellaeon considered his options, his cheeks hollowing out absently as he did so. After a moment’s thought, he pulled off Thrawn’s cock with an undignified, wet pop. 

“I’m not allowed to watch you?” he said, evading Thrawn’s censoring hand.

 _“Gilad,”_ said Thrawn, a note of rebuke in his voice. He sat up on his elbows, his hair in disarray, his skin shining with sweat. The quick glimpse of utter abandon Gilad got — Thrawn’s lips parted, his eyes half-lidded and dazed, his head tilted back — fractured and disassembled, turning into the imperious expression Gilad was used to from the bridge.

Well, except for one difference. On the bridge, Thrawn’s eyes didn’t tend to flick quite so frequently toward his own cock, which was also not generally rock-hard and glistening with Gilad’s spit.

“You look a little breathless,” said Gilad lightly, watching Thrawn’s chest rise and fall. “One would almost think you _like_ having your cock sucked.”

With a darkening scowl on his face and an enviable display of flexibility, Thrawn untwisted his legs from around Gilad’s hips and sat up, removing any chance Gilad might have had to continue — and before Gilad could react, could counteract this, Thrawn was lunging forward, his broad, warm hands on Gilad’s chest, his body weight bearing him down, pinning him against the mattress on his back.

Suddenly, Thrawn’s lips were only centimeters away from Gilad’s, and his eyes were glowing dangerously. His cock rubbed against Gilad’s thigh like a firebrand of slick heat — unnoticed by Thrawn, it seemed, but _definitely_ noticed by Gilad.

“Right,” said Gilad, extricating his hands and holding them up in surrender. He suddenly regretted making fun of Thrawn’s breathlessness, was having a bit of trouble breathing evenly himself. “You’re in charge, then.”

Thrawn growled his approval. His teeth on Gilad’s neck distracted him, put a stop to any further conversation — and any further experiments. All mental hang-ups and cultural boundaries were filed away for later; if Thrawn wanted to cover Gilad’s eyes and enjoy himself in private, then Gilad wasn’t going to complain — so long as Thrawn kept touching him, kept biting him, kept kissing him, kept— 

_Yes, like that._

—but Gilad couldn’t promise not to sneak a peek when Thrawn came.


	3. Chapter 3

Their shifts were over; Gilad’s daily report was done. This was the part where they dispensed with rank, became themselves again. But it had been a long, hard week, and this was the first time in seven days they’d had the chance to fall back into routine.

And Thrawn seemed to have forgotten how to do it.

Gilad watched him, waiting for a signal — for Thrawn’s face to soften, for his body language to change, for him to swivel in his command chair and face Gilad fully. But he didn’t, either not in the mood (an option Gilad didn’t want to think about) or waiting for Gilad to make the first move.

He could do that.

He reached for Thrawn’s face, meaning to touch his cheek, to let his thumb graze gently over the sharp cut of Thrawn’s cheekbone — but with a careful expression of disinterest, Thrawn turned back to his art displays and evaded the touch entirely. Gilad let his hand fall, considered Thrawn’s posture for a moment — the closed-off lines of his face, the hardness in his eyes — and allowed himself a quiet sigh.

He turned to go. Halfway to the door he heard the faintest rustle of fabric and glanced over his shoulder to see that Thrawn had turned to watch him leave. His expression had changed; he looked almost indignant. 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Gilad, letting his arms slap against his sides. He felt little anger; only a sense of amused exasperation and relief that this wasn’t a _bad_ moment, just another instance of Thrawn refusing to communicate the same way humans did. “Will you just _tell_ me what you want?” 

Thrawn’s jaw tightened; he swiveled away again with no answer. Sometimes, Gilad suspected the Chiss would rather die than ask for what he wanted. His self-discipline and control were so deeply ingrained in him that perhaps he saw no other way besides the minor manipulations that guided their lives — leaving a space empty on the bed when he wanted Gilad to sit beside him; picking an argument when he wanted to be touched. 

With another, much louder sigh, Gilad returned to Thrawn’s side. He studied the Grand Admiral, keeping a distinctly unimpressed expression on his face, and waited for Thrawn to acknowledge him. Thrawn seemed determined not to even glance his way.

“Is this a mind game?” asked Gilad, voice level.

Thrawn’s eyes remained fixed on the art holos. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. 

“You’re not angry with me?” Gilad asked, scrutinizing every tiny flex of Thrawn’s face. He kept his tone detached and unbothered, but still, Thrawn turned to look at him, eyebrows raised.

“Not at all,” he said.

Gilad hadn’t thought so, but in the face of Thrawn’s always-opaque moods, it was good to have some confirmation. He rolled his shoulders, ran through the other possible explanations in his head. Only when Thrawn looked away again did he voice Suspicion #1.

“Would it be alright if I hugged you?” he asked casually.

Thrawn wasn’t breathing. After a moment, he lowered his chin as if to protect his throat. His expression was dark, difficult to read — eyebrows furrowed, jaw set, cheeks perhaps a little flushed. Gilad didn’t press him, waited patiently for an answer — and as the silence wore on, Thrawn seemed to slowly and deliberately wipe the tension off his face. He leaned back in his chair, not quite accomplishing an air of calm, and gave Gilad a one-shouldered shrug.

“Alright,” he said. 

So _that_ was all he wanted. A great deal of willpower (and perhaps, he might be pressed to admit, a small amount of respect and affection for Thrawn) kept Gilad from rolling his eyes; he gestured for Thrawn to stand, wasn’t surprised when Thrawn made a big show out of taking his time. They stood barely six inches apart from each other as Thrawn adjusted the hem of his tunic, brushed dust off his sleeve.

It would have been highly satisfying to stay still, to make no move until Thrawn’s composure cracked and he was forced to initiate — but Gilad quashed the urge almost before it occurred to him. With another human (and maybe even a different Chiss), he might have done it, but this was different; certain considerations had to be made. Thrawn was still brushing off his uniform when Gilad pulled him close, wrapped his arms around him and guided him in until he could feel Thrawn’s breath against his neck and his heartbeat through his chest.

It wasn’t a type of hug Gilad experienced very often; it wasn’t the type of hug _anyone_ experienced often, he expected — certainly not in the Imperial Fleet. It was too intimate; their hips were touching, their chests and stomachs flush against each other so he could feel the depth and rhythm of every breath. He could feel Thrawn’s thigh, warm against his own; tangled his fingers in Thrawn’s hair and guided him down gently, until his face was buried in the crook between Gilad’s neck and shoulder.

He would let Thrawn decide when to pull away.


End file.
